The Murder Of King Duncan
by Graceaga
Summary: In the play, the death was never shown. This is my story of what happened. This is not meant to fit in with the original plotline. This is just...a one shot based on the murder.


I drown in darkness, the hallway painted black.

The only light comes from the glow of a gently flickering candle, right at the end of the corridor. The light at the end of the tunnel.

Suddenly, I just want to get it over. Get it done. My slow lagging footsteps change to a much quicker walk. A creaking floorboard still sounds after every slight movement. Ah, well. It is an old house. According to the local folk, this place has been here since anybody can remember.

Then I reach the door. Duncan's door.

That's when it hits me. I don't want to get this over and done with. I don't want to do this at all. In fact, I can't do this. Not to my friend; not to Duncan. He would never do this to me, or any of the others.

Or would he?

So I just stand there, assessing the situation.

A solitary tear makes its way down my face, and falls to the ground with a drip. It reminds me of the rain stopping, and the rays of sunlight seeping through the clouds. But this is not the light after the darkness. This is me not knowing what to think, what to do. This is me asking God to show me the light, to help me through the darkness. This is me asking for help over a rough patch. This is me wanting to know right from wrong. This is me wishing to know how I should feel.

But I only feel a cold numbness inside my soul. _I must be doing the right thing._

I take a deep breath.

This is what God wants me to do.

Even so, I let my eyes lazily rest on the candlestick. But even just lazily watching the flame provokes me to ponder over what I am doing. I dismiss these thoughts, as God has shown me the light. He knows what I am doing is right. _I _ know what I am doing is right. But that doesn't stop the flames from trying to convince me. God must have sensed my slight doubt.

First, the single harmless flame transforms into a roaring blaze. The fiery talons of hell edging me towards Duncan's door. But I stand my ground; not in defiance, not in opposition. In fear. Pure white fear. But he doesn't back down, he just fights harder. Mistaking my fear for open defiance.

The flames grow into a great wall, surrounding me, almost suffocating me to death. But I keep living, keep watching. My eyes wide open, in fear.

_I have no need to fear, God will always protect me._

Then I see it, a dagger, reflected back at me, in the orange of the flames. It floats in front of my eyes, for a moment. Turning this way, and that. Showing off the gory imprinting of human blood.

I reach out to grab it, yelling something inaudible.

And it all simultaneously disappears. The bloodied knife, the ferocious wall of fire, the fear. All of it, gone.

I yell out, again, as I take in my fingertips, Centimetres away from the bold brass door knob. I snatch in my hand quickly.

_ I'll do it, just not yet._

"I'll do it, don't you worry," I say aloud, my head rising to face the ceiling, "It'll take some time, a few moments, but I'll do it. I promise you that!"

I sit down, my back leaning against the dark oak doorway. If I'm going to do this, I'll have to do this right. No mistakes, no stopping to think. I breathe slowly, watching the calming golden glow of the singular flame.

But I swear I see a blade. Lurking, buried in the shadows. The light of the flame dazzling off of the silver.

When I stand, my hand gripping the handle, a feeling of finality washes over me. I smile, silently thanking God for the power to carry on.

_This is it._

I ignore the feeling of dread that eats away at me. Smiling through the fear.

I take a firmer grip of the doorknob, pushing the door open. It creeks slightly, as it lurches forwards, but Duncan only turns in his sleep. She was right, Duncan sleeps soundly.

I take a couple of hurried steps towards him, part-closing the door, so a chink of light can still slip into the room. I'll need light to do this, if I put one step wrong, it'll all be over. Now, I can see Duncan clearly

The man looks younger in his sleep. None of the worries of the day cause him to wrinkle up his face. He still looks worn, but not so beaten-down, not so depressed. Once, I thought of him as a father figure, but in sleep he looks more like a brother.

That's why it hurts me so much to do this.

_You do this, and there's no going back._

I count to ten, a breath between each number.

_I can do this._

God did not give me strength for me not to do this. I have to do this.

I take hold of the kitchen knife, rising it into the air, into the light.

_He Deserves This._ I tell it to myself, over and over, as I fiddle with the knife. This man is a traitor to this country, a killer of innocents. He deserves to die in the most painful way possible.

But he was my friend; my father figure.

So I'll make this quick.

So quick he wont feel a thing.

I press the cold blade to his chest.

_Do it!_

Then he opens his eyes, awakes from his sleep, "Macbeth?" He says, with fear in his eyes, "What is it? Is it Julie? Is she hurt?"

"No, It's not Julie," I say, coldly, thinking of all those he has killed. All that harm he has done.

In a fit of anger I thrust out my arm and pierce the knife through his heart.

The next thing I see is the wound. The knife sticking out of his chest, blood oozing from the point of impact and dripping down onto the bed-sheets. I've seen blood before, lots of it. Killed, even. But that was war, this is life.

I stagger back, as if I am in pain.

_What have I done?_

I catch hold of Duncan's eyes. All I see is hurt. Pain. Fear.

Out of nowhere, I start crying.

Howling.

I want to fix things, make him live again. But it is impossible. I can't do a thing. He has to stay dead, and I have to stay living. For my wife if for nobody else.

When I wrench the knife from his still bleeding body, I have to admit I think about it.

Killing myself, stopping my fate from continuing. Now, I know, those angels that told us of our future were not angels at all. They were spawn of the devil.

Satan is laughing at me.

I close Duncan's eyes, before I leave the room.

But that look will haunt me forever.

It takes me only a few moments to close the door behind me, and get back to my own room. Where my wife is waiting.

She doesn't ask, doesn't say a word. She just raises her eyebrows in question.

"Its done," I choke out, blinking back tears, "The deed is done,"

She smiles when I tell her. Not a fake smile, not a sympathetic smile. Not a smile that tells me that it will all be alright, not even a smile that tells me she cares. Nothing like that.

Her smile is of pure evil.

* * *

**A/N: I had to write this for a school essay. It was meant to be based on the murder of King Duncan in Macbeth. Some set it in space, others in different eras or lifestyles. This is mine. So, how was it? What do you think?**


End file.
